Mercy. If President Moore really is about to implement a one-child policy, he must think he can execute it better than the United States did, cleaning one of the ugliest stains that comes with such a brutal law: Multiples ripped from their mothers’ arms to be sent to work camps, or worse.

He wants to keep his title as Benevolent Leader.

To do that he needs to rectify America’s mistake: prevent any chance of a political disaster like the Traitorous Twins from existing.

The president takes hold of my shaking hand like a friend in need.

“Give me access to your father’s research,” he says. “And in return I will give you your freedom.”

Moore searches my face. It’s painfully clear I don’t know a thing about Albatross’s existence. I can’t even pretend; it would be useless.

He clicks his tongue in disappointment and then lets go of my hand. “You really should follow my advice and eat something,” he says, rising to his feet. “You won’t like what happens next if you refuse. I won’t let it be said that I didn’t take proper care of you while in my custody.”

All my vitality is suddenly sucked out of me, and I deflate. My shoulders sag forward, the burden to continue the fight much too heavy for one person alone.

“Just drink, Ms. Goodwin,” President Moore says as he places the water glass into my lifeless hands. He walks toward the open door. “There’s no need for you to suffer like this.”

I launch the water glass across the room, narrowly missing the president’s head. The glass explodes dramatically against the blank white wall, but I get no satisfaction. I’m left feeling somehow emptier than I already was.

The president stops and drags his gaze from the pool of water on the floor to me. “Such a waste,” he says before the door seals shut behind him.

Such a waste.

OWEN

“She doesn’t look dangerous,” Blaise observes.

The guy’s a genius, a legend, the best black-hat hacker in cybercrime. But he can’t decipher people worth a damn.

That’s because she’s asleep! I almost point out to him, but I keep my mouth shut.

“Not anything that you can’t handle,” I flat-out lie, knowing full well that if Rayla ever wakes up, she can snap his scrawny neck like a discarded toothpick. Best to keep that knowledge to myself if I want to pawn her off.

“So, can I leave her here?” I ask, my conscience squeaky clean. I did my duty. I gave Rayla her best shot to live, and now I want to wash my hands of her.

I’ve already skipped two days of work and my parents must be calling every hour on the hour. These are fixable problems, if I act now. Even the slight wrinkles of tasering a Kismet Security Guard and hopping into a stolen car with a Common member can all be smoothed out with a little inventiveness and the right silver-tongued excuse.

“You really are just a corporate Cog,” Blaise accuses me in his low, muffled voice. A black bandana covers his nose and mouth, his unsettling signature printed on its front: a wicked orange smile with teeth made of flames.

We both look up from Rayla’s unconscious body, almost buried beneath the wires and tubes that are keeping her breathing. “Are you sure you’re a Programmer and not the programmed?” he throws at me.

Another poor observation, bud! I want to hurl at him, but I keep my comments to myself.

Blaise_of_glory was the lone user to answer my distress call. I was careful and cryptic, but I was sure any savvy lawbreaker crawling around in the Dark Web would be able to piece together current events and know the person I was asking aid for.

Key words: factory raid and slayer. Blaise responded immediately with an address to some no-name town a mile outside the sacred waters of Lake Michigan. Past online interactions with Blaise have been limited and brief, but he was the only option, and Rayla was starting to look like a corpse.

My first time manning the wheel of a car was a bit rough, what with dodging the Michigan State Guard down back roads while transporting a dying criminal in my back seat. But I did it. I found the address of the lonely, pitch-black house where a Goodwin-masked doctor was waiting for us inside.

After Rayla was stable, the doctor split, leaving me solo to watch over the fancy high-tech monitors and wait for her to wake up. If she wakes up. But I really don’t want to be here if or when that happens.

Blaise only just showed up this morning, making all his mudslinging put-downs a bit hasty in my opinion. I am shocked, however, that he had the moxie to turn up in person at all. Hackers usually hide behind screens and codes, so I’ll give him points for that.

“You just have hideouts and anonymous doctors on standby for emergencies like this?” I ask, glancing over at the medical equipment, adding up how much it all must cost. Whatever. The guy’s extorted millions from big corporations and government agencies—he can afford it.

“Miscreant Life One-Oh-One,” he sighs, like he’s bored of me.

“I didn’t think Blaise would join the Common,” I say, air quoting his username. “Hackers stay underground.”

“The rebellion’s going above ground,” Blaise answers slowly, like I’m hard of learning. “It’s a once-in-a-century opportunity to subvert the powers that be. The kind of thing I live for. Obviously.” He throws a nod at Rayla. “This woman and her family could take down the government. I’m all in. Anyone with half a brain should be.”

Well, that’s my cue. “Look, it’s been fun,” I lie again, starting my discreet shuffle toward the exit. “But it’s back to the real world for me.”

Blaise lets out a fiendish laugh, made all the more disturbing beneath his gaping smile of flames. I can just make out his eyes under the shadow of his hoodie; they’re an imitation gold, glaring at me in a kind of challenge.

“I don’t need to prove anything to you, Blaise,” I say flatly. “Or whatever your real name is.” I puff up my chest with pride and superiority. He’s just a dark-side hacker who’s jealous of the light.

“You think you’re the good guy and we’re the criminals, don’t you?” Blaise points to himself, the notorious boy wonder of cyberextortion, then to America’s second most wanted lying comatose on the bed.

Well, if we’re keeping tabs . . .

I see Rayla’s fingers twitch on the mattress, first her middle, then her pinky. Better speed things up.

“If I lose my position at Kismet, the government will cancel my work permit,” I summarize my situation for him. “My parents and I will be expelled from the state and shipped back to Georgia, where there are no jobs for me. We’ll all starve, yada yada. I won’t bore you with the typical details.”

“Then why,” the raspy voice of a ghost whispers from the bed, “did you get in my car?”

At first I pretend not to hear. I decide not to move, thinking if I stand still, maybe she won’t see me. But I can’t help myself.

“It wasn’t your car!” I yell. It’s my car, I finish in my head.

For some reason I expect her eyes to still be closed from her weakened condition, but when I finally turn to Rayla, her green eyes are wide open, fixed in her usual determined stare.

“Where am I?” Rayla demands. She has the gall to rip off a few of the wires attached to her arms and stomach. With a hardheadedness that seems to run in her family, she sits up, completely ignoring the fact that she just came to after a gunshot wound.